Sober Reflections of a City Drunk

It’s a few minutes past midnight. Not that you can tell from the flurry of activities going on in the sin city. The city is so full of life; night nurses fighting for the strategic parts of the streets, street families hurdling together to fight the biting cold, alcoholics dragging themselves to yet another bar, while the true champions of the night lurk in dark alleys waiting for prey. Meanwhile miraa and muguka sellers proudly display their wares for their unending customers.

He's never known what the difference is between the two. He will ask Owen about that.

The queue at the Cooperative Bank ATM is just getting longer. The bank must be making a lot of money on Fridays. Unless of course people are too inebriated to remember their PINS.

He's on his fourth Guinness. He will always be grateful to Sir Arthur Guinness for such a rich and rewarding drink. His eyes are now getting a little bit heavy. He can still see though, clearly so. Today he’s not at his favorite joint. They didn’t find any seats there. The new place is not bad. From the balcony of the new joint he watches Embassava buses come and go. He watches lovers cling on to each other while prolonging their good byes. Such people make him believe in love again. Until thirty minutes later they are prolonging a welcome hug. The day lass has exited, the night nurse has arrived. He smiles knowingly. A man has to do what a man has to do.

The Nairobi air is so much loaded. There’s a faint but unmistakable smell of the ubiquitous teargas wafting in the air. It is punctuated with the nauseating stench from heap of garbage and refuse, heavy dust, thick dense smoke from the matatus that only ply their trade at night and the smell of ladies perfumes, weaves and makeup.

Today is not the best of days. But it’s still a good day nevertheless. His companion is a great man. He's reliable. He's consistent. He’s the embodiment of greatness. He just has a tiny flaw. He's never on time……unless it's a summon to appear for a drinking session or a Gor Mahia match. The pursuit of greatness waits for no man. As for Gor, Srikal cannot be kept waiting. Even if you are the mighty queen of England.

The guys on the other table light their cheap cigarettes and there’s a fresh scramble for the loaded Nairobi air. He doesn’t like smokers. He loves his lungs and so loathes smoke. But then hi bar si ya mamake. He’ll have to endure or retire early to the warm welcome of his apartment’s solitude.

The music is okay. It's not Rick Ross but thank God it’s not riddims either. It will do.

From his spot the entire city is right in front of him. He sees her. She's in a skirt that's obvious the tailor ran out of material.  She's sexy. It’s clear her dress is her choice. He would want to strip her.  Not in public, just in private.  She looks quite sophisticated. These yellow women will be the end of us all. She looks like she's the type of girl who drinks tots the size of his salary. He escorts her with the eyes till she disappears into a taxi …..To Caramel Lounge probably. One day he might just be able to take her there. A man is allowed to dream.

He's trying to close a deal on WhatsApp. She's some familiar stranger on one of his WhatsApp groups. She seems intelligent. And funny. And beautiful. Yes, he did stare at her profile picture. He’s superficial. He knows.

He must not seem pushy. So he takes his time. Complimenting and laughing at her jokes while appearing uninterested in pursuing a personal conversation. It’s still a group and he is trying not to be noticed.

The phone goes off. Tomorrow he'll have to start again.  F*ck Android. He needs to buy a kabambe to feel the void in situations like this. Wait, kabambe doesn't have WhatsApp.

He is thinking about her. He’s thinking about them.

What's she doing now? Watching Scandal in her bedsitter at Kahawa? Does she have somebody over? Has she introduced him to their motorbike guy or their local mama mboga or their butcher? Has she cooked for him? Hope it’s just mukimo or waru. Has he discovered that spot by the neck yet? That exact spot that ignites her passion and drives her crazy? Does he make her scream? Does she love him?  He misses her. He really wants to text her and spew nonsense. Break down and ask her back. Beg if need be. He misses her sweet scent, her soft perfect lips and her homeliness. He's saved by the power shortage.  It’s ok. He'll text her when he's sober.  He never texts back when he's sober.

He thinks about her as well. His Mama Mitch. The closest to Halle Berry he’s ever gonna get. He thinks about her dreadlocks. How he loved playing with them. He remembers her white teeth and her bewitching smile. He remembers Mitch. Their son. Mitch is a teddy bear but he was a son to him. He truly loved their little family. Is she out? Is she with her gang, the ones that she always showed up for a date with or is she with her new guy? Is he strategic? Will he score tonight? Will he change the name of their son? Will she let him and thus close the door on the beautiful memories they shared together? He’ll text her in the morning. He never texts her when he’s sober.

He thinks about her too. Is she at the kesha tonight? He remembers her telling him she can’t date alcoholics. He remembers explaining that he isn’t an alcoholic. He just drinks Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays only. She’d dare ask him to choose between greatness and him! Women!! He shakes his head.

Had he made any right choices in his life? His peers are getting married and begetting twins, divorcing and remarrying, going to statehouse for tea and giving out sewing machines to poor women, getting philosophical and motivational and commanding the respect of fellow men. Yet here he sits at this crowded bar. Consuming beer from a recycled bottle somebody used a year ago.

He thinks about his mum back home. Is she thinking about him? He knows she is. She’s probably kneeling. Praying. Praying for him. Praying that he goes to church the following day. Praying that he gets good health. Praying that her son doesn’t get swallowed by the Sodom and Gomorrah of our time. He’ll call her in the morning. He will always remember to call her when he’s sober.

He shuts down the train of thought and hugs his cold, bitter, crisp, dark love even tighter.

Maybe he’s an alcoholic after all.


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So did you notice anything new in the blog? Anything. Sorry, I forgot you are on your mobile . It's okay. I'll tell you. There's a social media plugin. You can now comment and share on Facebook and twitter easily.

That's courtesy of some great work from the one and only Owen Habel Lwanda. You can interact with his creative side on his blog http://owenhabel.blogspot.com or his geeky side at http://in4addict.blogspot.com.

He has also featured prominently on sabhinajoy.com and weed.com.

Otherwise keep calm and keep sharing. 

MINI POST; LOVE IN THE KINGDOM

She wasn't the most beautiful bride the kingdom had ever set their eyes on. If superficial beauty was the only criteria used to get grooms then she would have died a lonely old maid. That's not to take anything from her. Mama Mboga actually had a shouting figure consisting of a prominent sitting area and giant milk makers. She had an inner beauty and radiated so much warmth. Perhaps that's why she was getting married to the second most powerful man and heir apparent to the Vultures’ kingdom.

Baroson, soon to be Lord Rungu Jnr, had been hit by the thunderbolt. The thunderbolt was an intense and passionate love. Most men lived their life without ever feeling that way about another person. They were of course excited and a little jealous of their soon to be leader.

It was always said that the way to a man's heart is through good food and good sex. Mama Mboga had a large sukuma wiki plantation and her prowess in the bedroom was something no one could doubt. After all Lord Rungu Jnr couldn't have been screaming during the nights for fear of the dark.

On the big day nothing was put to chance, no effort was spared. The king’s head of security Cpt Omsa screened all and sundry while paying particular attention. After all the kings enemies were not asleep. Wanyonyi Wamalwa the village bodaboda man made trips ferrying passengers in his old rickety bicycle. Boka was at his comical best, entertaining the king’s guest with dedication hitherto unseen. Mabangi and Shakes ensured the guests supply of good weed was uninterrupted while prosecutor Kartel Sumu brought gallons upon gallons of the traditional keg Guinness brew. The polish propagandist was at his philosophical best. It was a great day to be alive. Never had love been so sweet.

Whereas Lord Rungu wasn't the biggest fan of the wedding, (he had openly showed he wanted his son to get married to Teacher Reza, the Swahili teacher with a mellow voice), his son had chosen and he had to bless the union. Not that he personally didn’t like Mama Mboga. What was not to like in his new daughter in law? He had even gotten used to the daily nocturnal noises.Lord Rungu Jnr was after all a Rungu by blood.

The bride looked unrecognizable in the well-fitting royal gown. She radiated so much warmth. Even the groom himself was surprised by the radiance his bride oozed.

Shehe Kitivo Okumu was just about to declare the union complete when a man appeared claiming that Mama Mboga was actually his wife of seven years. The man was Yahya and from his face he was either a very good actor or he was severely distraught. Either way there would be no wedding.

The Njuri Ncheke had yet another case to deliberate on;even before settling the case against Boka J Makaburi

mzee-varaq.blogspot.com

MINI POST: THE LEGEND OF LORD RUNGU

A long long time ago, before Juma James became my congressman, before captain Omsakhulu realized polythene bags are not shoes, before Klein Baroson discovered Mama Mboga, before Mabangi realized that cannabis Sativa is man's best friend, before Dabuz went to play professional hockey in Moshi and started curling his hair, before Mwas realized why it's important to knock before entering, even before Mnyama Jnr met Pumpum the love of his life, there lived a man.

The man was named T Tolo Matolo. T Tolo was a short man, very close to gravity. His people had by then not realized that this was a natural adaptation. They hadn’t realized that he would bring honour, so much honour to the Vultures village .

The talented T never showed off, bidding his time, waiting to announce himself to the world. His planning was impeccable. It would only be a matter of time.

The battle that drove him to the throne was at Mabibo Hostels, Dar es Salaam. Warriors from as far countries as Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, Tanzania etc. gathered, each believing in their own ability, each confident of victory. So they lined, tall and short, experienced and inexperienced, each with the weapon ready, fully geared to grab the throne and a piece of history.

The time was right for T. The stage was perfect. The desire was there. But as we were soon to find out the weapon was there too, concealed, waiting to do damage.

No sooner had they seen the weapon than they coiled their tails and dashed for the door. Legend has it that it was a bazooka. And who brings a pistol to a bazooka fight? The fight was over even before it started.

That night the Vultures celebrated their victory in the foreign land. Their own brother had brought them untold honor. The elders of the village Kitivo Okumu and Italliano W Jacktone announced him the new Lord of the village.

His first executive order was to compel the warriors to temporary exile as he celebrated his famous victory with a fresh concubine carefully selected from the thousands who thronged his doors.
Lord Rungu brought prosperity and peace to his people. Whereas he would sometimes fall to the feminine whims of his subject’s women, he was generally a fair ruler.

And his people loved and respected his counsel. He is an inspiration to the young men not just in his village but across the valleys, hills and plains of Africa.

MINI POST; BOKA J MAKABURI

The days were getting long and monotonous, the nights stale and loudly silent. Lord Rungu was increasingly getting impatient and frustrated, easily irritable and devoid of life. His wives and concubines had been stung by the famous Rungu poison and were heavy carrying little Rungus and thus unable to satisfy the kings insatiable appetite. His warriors, afraid the king would take notice of their sisters and wives sent them to relatives in faraway villages. The great ‘famine’ of 013 AR (After Rungu) had begun.

The Njuri Ncheke aware that their supreme sovereign and God chosen leader was becoming unhappy hurriedly convened a crisis meeting. The Njuri Ncheke was the governing council of the Vultures tribe. It was ably run by the one eyed man, the polish propagandist, the sub Saharan man, prosecutor Sumu among several other men of no mean repute.

After hours of deliberations at their HQ in Dimples Pub, buoyed by the local keg Guinness, the elders agreed to hire a man whose reputation had flown above him to entertain the king. The man was Boka J Makaburi.

Whereas there was scant information on where he'd come from, there was no doubt about his ability to crack the king up. And a happy king meant a happy Kingdom.

J Boka Makaburi was a man who performed his duty to his king with hitherto unseen relish. The aura of mystery hanging over his head just but made him intriguing enough to be funny. There were rumors that he was the lost son of Makaburi, the late Muslim cleric killed by poachers but J neither denied or accepted it.

There was nothing J Makaburi had not seen or done. Imagine your wildest story. Then exaggerate it as much as you can. Not even that could come close to the story telling abilities of the man. Most times in order to vividly create a picture, J would use props and illustrations. The veteran king once again looked forward to his days even though the nights were still cold and unoccupied.

A month had hardly passed by when the Njuri Ncheke started noticing that the sugar and maize flour levels were quickly depleting. At first they though there was a food thief in the kings Court, an offence punishable by immediate banishment.

To everyone's utter surprise, it was found out that J Makaburi had been preparing his own mountain of ugali and ‘nyuol ber’ of tea in the middle of the night long after the village was snoring.

A decision had to be made. Feed the monstrous appetite of the King's favorite servant and deplete the grain reserves or do away with the mysterious guzzler and face the full wrath of the King's famous temper.

The Njuri Ncheke had a decision to make, and they had to make it fast.

.......To be Continued ...............

Facing Aberdares

Karatina Town is like a bachelor's bed sitter; small but not crammed, not fancy yet adequate, packed  but still ample. Like a bachelor's house she has all the essentials of life, a post office, a supermarket, fresh farm produce, petrol station. All these are closely hurdled, as though almost kissing each other. Karatina doesn't notice when we get in, maybe like a shrewd spinster she's trying to get our attention by ignoring us. It doesn't matter, we are not here for her, we are here to pick Daisy and take her to prove her worth across the four ridges of the Aberdares.

Daisy is mad. The anger doesn’t in any bit interfere with her amazing countenance. She was even fairer in 3D. Her nails are as perfect as ……(Wait, she warned me against blogging about her nails).

She has been waiting for us at the Maathai’s Supermarket for the last two hours.

Of course we are stunned at the sheer inefficiency of Mr. Momanyi, the logistics officer. Daisy only smiles when we assure her that heads are going to roll. That the Convener/manager/founder/supreme hiker who is our great friend will not let this crime against an angel go unpunished.

 There was no better way to start a hike. Wait, there was. 

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I thought Nairobi represented modernity, civilization and everything upgrade from the village. The sight of a man and his wife in all manner of crude weapons battling themselves to the ground on Thika Superhighway quickly kills that. The woman's comfort and expertise wielding a boulder would put to shame even the most ardent Kogallo hooligans. Damn. She was good. I just pitied the man. In fact, he is a disgrace to the men community all over the world. There’s absolutely no justification for fighting a woman. It's even more embarrassing when you can't do it properly. I hope they had amazing makeup coitus after that.

We talk. We talk about sex and love, men and women. We talk about religion-not an emotional conversation based on the Kanyaris of the world- but intellectual discourse on the role and origin of religion.

We talk about the Roman Catholic Church and oppression, we talk about Alexander the great and company. We talk about inconsistencies in the Gospel. I didn't realize Traitor was this well versed in the Bible. He tells us about the fifth Gospel that was apparently scrapped.

We talk about Prophet Mohammed and his thirteen year old maidens.

At this moment am getting really uncomfortable. Out of experience I stay out of conversations on religion. There can never be consensus, there can never be an agreement on even the fundamentals. To some religion is man-made opium to the masses; to others religion is God himself.

Am relieved, no am excited when we start talking about sex. I may not know about the fifth gospel but sex is what I do for a living. Not doing you pervert, talking. Brenda is excited too. We talk about the government's plan to pay young girls between 15 and 24 to abstain. The males shout that that's feminist and discriminatory, the realists concern is the practicality and the monitoring mechanisms. How will the government for example prove that one is abstaining? Just to make sure the others are well aware that they are not in company of a 'person like this', I refer them to my articles in the local and international newspapers.

We talk about marriage and weddings. The traitor, even though unmarried is the expert here. He asks us if Adam and Eve just moved in or held a lush ceremony in the serene gardens of Eden. Despite having a free garden, security in the form of lions and leopards, reception of wild fruits and berries and God himself as the priest they still moved in. I’m not sure about that but am no authority here.

We talk about Ndovu and why it’s the worst drug a person can ever take.

We talk about Mandela and Gadhafi. Strangely we all agreed that the latter was the best thing that ever happened to Africa.

We talk about FUJOSONCRAFT. This was an exam that was done by the elite primary schools in Nyanza. Swab is the expert here. He hasn’t forgotten how FUJOSONCRAFT made him feel. 

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It's only a matter of time before we got to Karatina and pick Daisy.

(Just a quick question is it a coincidence that two Guinesses at Maathais cost 310 and Kanyari’s seeds cost 310 as well?)

We go past Kihuri Secondary School in Othaya. We talk about the difference between a high school and a secondary school. I dint go to either, I went to the school, and thus I can't contribute much. Daisy is the expert here, she is a loyal Sossion’s follower and she explains that a high school is just like Runda while a secondary school is like Kawangware.

After walking forever we get to the end of the tarmac. Apparently here is where the walking starts. I can't seem irritated because that may kill the image I'm building. Here the Convener is the boss. He shows off by rolling across steep slopes backwards. Here is his arena and he is king. We watch him impress the lasses. He reminds anybody who cares to listen that he has done this a million times. He is good. He helps ladies twice his weight across slippery slopes where if you slip you'd either kiss the live Aberdares fence or roll off to the stream below.

There's something refreshing about meeting ladies in the wild. Not jut coz they grab you like their life depended on it (well it does), but there's no pretense, no fakeness, ‘no ntakula 2 kidogo’. An orange across the electric fence is hunted and feasted upon. And apparently an orange is not just a fruit, it can be a game. And a very interesting game. To Lady X hope we continue with the game some other time.

And to Swab I'm sorry about the ram that hit you in the ass. I don't think it’s your fault. You were just paying for the crimes of the men there who have been taking advantage of his ewes. Hope your ass heals fast. (I'm trying to keep a straight face here)

Stuffy, sweaty, tired, hungry finally there it was. The Aberdare waterfall. Breathtaking. Awesome. Surreal. We stood there transfixed. Still. Taking it all in. Witnessing the flying water hit the bottom with so much life. So much fury. Never tiring. Never stopping. The least we could do was brave the chilling waters to take a closer look.

That's not to say that am falling in love with nature. That's to say I'll think about it. Hockey and writing won’t be pleased about that.

To the guys, you people were awesome, from the 'romantic' Momanyi to the 'heartbroken' Pauline, to the amorous couple, to coconvener Festo, to the bigger Luo and of course to Mzee KUCU mum.

The only disappointing thing was the unlabeled Kibaki's palatial residence. I wish he was from my village we could have made him a signboard for free...

Here lives champion of the economy, the president of presidents, the supreme leader, God’s gift to Kenya, golf wizard, loving husband to Muthoni and Wambui, father of the Kenyan people blah blah

blah 

Just one more thing:

                                     Aberdares, you should know people!